The Beauty of Stalemate or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Somethingness of Nothing

Life is something. It’s the greatest something. What else could the sum total of those that we see, be? I suppose it could not be less than these things, as it is the whole of its constituency. It is the greatest. Greater than thought, greater than mind, greater than each individual component of all that is amidst us, because it truly is all of it. But life isn’t just a bunch of objects. It’s not a catalogue that we just look through to choose and pick out those things that maybe want or don’t want or don’t understand or want to understand. It’s a formation. It’s a participation. It’s participation in the formation of the manifestation of those things that we believe, that we know in our heart of hearts, that will and must be. It is making. It is living.

Life isn’t just this passive setting of ourselves by as some allegedly predisposed main character waltzes center stage with the girl of his dreams. (Or for the more progressive of you, the man of his dreams). We’re all center stage, the writer of that character who we ourselves play in the movie of life. For we are the movie makers, the directors, writing ourselves into fine those pieces of cinematography so saccharine to the eye that we cannot help but feel our blood sugars rise at their sight, that beauty of reality that we make for ourselves, for others, for all of us. We put ourselves in place and through connections of body, mind, and soul to those with whom we share proximation and immediacy, we make reality in this life. Like Yahweh formed from his consciousness the firmament and man of old, we manifest that ceiling above and that ground below us that sets our sights upon those things we can and cannot do, shaping man and mind in our own self image. And it is good.

Nay, it is beautiful. It’s like staring into grace and magnificence of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, with whose satiating confluence of human anatomy and the reality that those gods of old we’re imagined as individuals after our own hearts, living amidst and betwixt the natural and unnatural. It’s this beauty, so mundane as the human form, that is not mundane at all, but is amazing.

But as with all things, there is issue. Yes! there is issue in what we shall form, there is issue in how we shall form it, there issue in the why, the when, the who, the reason, the being, the meaning, the making, the exacting, the enacting, the crafting, the relaxing. There’s question. Question as to not only what these qualifiers may be but how we and those individuals about us that all find such issues may seek to understand and interpret them. We question ourselves when we desire to make reality. We question those whys, those whens, and those whos. We want perfection, life a crystalline glass of interweaving interconnections of people and their wills, the interstices of which interact and which make possible the formation of more the same. But we know these things cannot be. We know people aren’t perfect and we know, thus, that life is not perfect. So we question. We more question more. We question until we don’t know what to question any longer because we’ve probed so damn much of ourselves and those things that we do know that we question even these basic axioms which themselves are the root by which our original questions have been synthesized. Who am I? What do I want? What do I know? How do I know it? And in these questions we rock that great ark of self upon which God, or Nature, has entrusted the animals of thought. Those waves of question shake that ark to it’s damned core, displacing such animals in the ocean of mind. The ark is empty.

It’s here that a new beauty forms. Or really, has always been. The beauty of nothing. Of emptiness. Of the cleansing of the self of all those extraneous things that maybe we don’t know. Maybe we do. It’s irrelevant now, because these things are no longer with us. They’ve dissolved. What exists now not life, but it’s potential. What exists now is not something, it’s potential. Nothing. In that nothing is all somethings, it itself being the supreme something by which all things may be and not be all at the same time. This place, that action, these thoughts, and those words all may be or not be because there is not a single thing that they are. They simply cease being in their entirety and in doing so they forfeit their man-made reality of being, in favor of a non-being that awards them the ability to be whatever we make of them. But so long as we do not, they are everything. So long as we stay as we are, all realities may be. So long as we abdicate from that life-lived position of unlikely Godhood by which we make of ourselves and our world, we make all worlds and all selves at the same time. Through no course of action there is all action in that state of non-being that itself is contradictory to the very conception of it, and is thus beyond it. It is creation not of reality, but of potency. And it is good. Nay, it is beautiful.